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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29328075">The Whispering Walls Blues</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU'>CookieCatSU</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ghostbusters (2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies is more like I find you annoying until I don't, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erin is dead, F/F, Holtzbert Brand Ouija Boards®, Proton Packs are taking a back seat, Slow Burn, Sort Of, The demon is a nice ghost that cleans your room when you aren't looking, There will be discussions of how Erin died at a later date, Think the Shining but not scary, and haunts Holtzmann's apartment, communication with the dead, ghost au, so there's that</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:55:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29328075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Holtzmann's pretty sure her apartment is haunted.</p><p>Overall, that's not the craziest discovery she's made this week. She just hadn't expected her ghost to be so... tidy?</p><p>That fic where Holtzmann meets a dead Erin, and it goes about as well as you would expect. (Or as poorly as you'd expect?)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erin Gilbert/Jillian Holtzmann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Whispering Walls Blues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Holtzmann's living space is what most would call chaos. She likes it like that. Things are never where they're <em> supposed </em> to be, but they're always exactly where she expects them to be (exactly where they belong). It's a perfect representation of the ol' noggin, she says proudly, and people stare at the half-a nuclear reactor in the garage and the confetti pop tarts in the fridge, and openly gape.</p><p> But hey, truth is truth.</p><p>"You gotta live <em> your </em> truth" Holtzmann declares, when Abby Yates mentions the derisiveness of the field she was about to plunge into headfirst.</p><p>Abby slams her copy of The Principles of The Metaphysical Plane shut with the crisp slap of fresh pages. The New York Public Library is peacefully quiet. Considerably too quiet, and Holtzmann itches to move.</p><p>"Are you just gonna keep spouting metaphors now?" Abby's smile is appreciative, but dry. "Wait? Did you just quote Ellen DeGeneres?"</p><p>Holtzmann grins wide, crosses her arms, and moves to rest her boots on the table. Her timbs. "You've gotta live that truth, my gal. Organized Chaos. That's where it's at"</p><p>Abby blinks heavy-lidded behind black-rimmed glasses. "Organized Chaos?"</p><p>"Yeah, Organized Chaos. Think this crazy thunderstorm that's totally out of control, okay. Just zapping people left and right, boom, boom, boosh, but you know exactly where's it's going; Because there's a pattern. It moves in very clear, predetermined ways that only seem random because you don't have the necessary data to predict them"</p><p>"Okay, I'll give you that," Abby agrees, and there's a shared sense of understanding, passed through their eyes- silent, and easy, effortless in the way Abby's head tilts upwards and Holtzmann's smile morphs, somewhat, but doesn't dissipate.</p><p>That's what Holtzmann likes about Abby. She gets it; or at least she gets people not getting it, being an outsider and sitting alone under the bleachers at lunch, gobbling away at your bagged bologna sandwich while you flip through college level Physics textbooks. Or something along those lines. Abby probably always used to eat ham.</p><p>A chair scrapes across the floor. Holtzmann glances up, and notices Abby is smirking as she unzips her plaid off-the-shoulder backpack. "-but the term Organized Chaos is still an oxymoron"</p><p>"No it's not"</p><p>"What? Each of those words literally means the opposite of the other word. That's the definition of an oxymoron"</p><p>"But are they incompatible terms? I think not, Abs. I think not"</p><p>Holtzmann waves her hand. "Moving on. We are the Organized Chaos, Abby. Now, let us do as the clouds do and take the scientific world by storm!"</p><p>"We will. We <em> will, </em> Holtzy" She crams about six books into her bag with one hand, vehement. Holtzmann watches, positively intrigued. "but first I need you to help me move these books"</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>"Books, Holtz. Grab some and stuff 'em in the bag"</p><p>Holtzmann's eyes sparkle. "You didn't tell me we were robbing the library" </p><p>"You can't steal something that's free" Abby states, very matter of factly. "Now, come on. Where's that book on Theoretical Thermodynamics?"</p><p>Holtzmann snatches it off the table. Like a 20 pound brick of knowledge. "Yeah, we're definitely gonna be needing this. I'll just-" She slips it in her coat.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Holtzmann thinks she has a house guest, of sorts. They sneak in when she isn't home, hang around while she's at work, and must leave before she comes home because she's never actually caught anyone standing dead awkward in the middle of her foyer with one of those weird old fashioned straw brooms that, by the way, have always <em> fascinated </em> her- because they're pretty counter-intuitive, and how does that work, dragging straw across the floor? Who thought that up?</p><p>She hasn't seen anyone crawling out onto the fire escape as she's coming in, yet. Or hiding in the closet (though she has considered that they pried up that one loose floorboard underneath where she hangs her coats, and hunkered inside to lie in wait. Checking produced no results, however).</p><p>That's not even the weirdest part though. The weirdest part? The only sign they'd been there at all was the <em> cleaning </em>. Made up bed, tucked around the edges in this super meticulous way Holtzmann didn't have the patience for on the best of days. Mopped floors. Dusted shelves, just dusting themselves. Dishes hanging, drying on the dish rack?</p><p>Folded socks? </p><p><em> Spooky, </em> right?</p><p>Holtzmann had come up with a working hypothesis, a couple days in. </p><p>A month later, she slots herself up against a paper thin wall, unfolds the greasy pizza napkin stowed away in her coverall pocket, and promptly gets to brainstorming.</p><p>Holtzmann sees two possible options: one, someone is breaking into her apartment specifically to clean it. This seems unlikely but not at all impossible. </p><p>Holtzmann has heard that people can be really nice. Weirdly nice. Some also have a weird way of showing it.</p><p>"There was that one dude" She remarks to the ceiling, boots thrown up on her pockmarked, lime green coffee table, pencil balancing precariously on the bridge of her nose. "The Trashman, yeah"</p><p>Except he wasn't nice. He killed someone, she thinks, stuffed him in a trunk or something, but he was thoughtful enough to bleach all the floors and walls when he was done. Which is very polite, and Holtzmann likes to think that her murderer- if she were ever murdered, anyway- would also be just as polite. Nice and well mannered.</p><p>Manners are very important. A teacher told her that, one time, and she read it in a pamphlet once, probably. Catholic school. </p><p>Holtzmann likes to think she's a very nice neighbor, and Ms. Engelberg across the hall seems to have a cleaning compulsion, so she could see her letting herself in to help her out. </p><p>Ms. Engelberg has a weak heart, however, and the state Holtzmann's apartment generally propagates, two parts whirlwind explosion site and three parts missing tools thrown on the bathroom sink, screwdrivers in the utensils drawer and wrenches stowed safely away in that glass vase of begonias just beside the door (It’s <em> ingenious, </em> Holtzmann argues when Abby steps past the threshold into Holtzland and then spends half a minute staring with eyebrows drawn together, because you never, ever know when you might need a 6 cm on the way out). And it’s right there. </p><p>If her mother is really going to make her display those brightly colored plant genitals, “Birthday Begonia ovaries,” she says specifically, as she plucks an orange petal, satin soft between her thumbs, and flicks it on the floor- she might as well get some practical use out of it, right? Abby laughs really loudly, and Holtzmann decides she must approve. She also approves that Abby approves, because it's a very sensible idea. It just makes <em> sense. </em></p><p>Plant genitals aside, Engelberg would fall dead of a heart attack at the sight of Holtzmann's mailbox. (Bless her soul). Forget the actual apartment.</p><p>So it isn't Ms. Engelberg.</p><p>That leads her to opto number two; she's being haunted. Full blown spectral resonance.</p><p>It’s a considerably more appealing possibility than the first.</p><p>Because otherwise Holtzmann needs to get her locks changed. </p><p>And to get the locks changed, she had to talk to her landlord. And she can’t talk to her landlord until she… She glances at her kitchen, small and homely and decorated just to her liking, and currently covered in homebrewed scorch marks from the floorboards to the edges of the ceiling- and starts to laugh.</p><p>Yeah, she can not talk to him until she's got that fixed first. In fact, until this place is spic and span, she shouldn’t even look at him.</p><p>“You know what they say; 3 strikes and then you're out- On the streets” Holtz laughs. The lights flicker. Fluorescent bright blinking.</p><p>Anyway, she learned a valuable lesson today. Copper was not the proper conductor for a 2000 amp flux capacitor. She jots down ‘no copper’ on her pizza napkin. Sticks her tongue out, and adds, ‘Try Silver’.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>"Are floating plates normal?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>Her goggles slip down her nose, nearly clattering onto the cluttered lab table because she looks up so fast. A insane grin curls across her face, and she yanks her hand through dark tinged roots. "Plates floating of their own accord. Beauty and the Beast style. You know, just spinning and dancing from the sink on down to the dishwasher and slotting themselves in all the dish rack slots"</p><p>She makes a quiet, Oooo noise, with lips pursed, trembling with intermittent laughter, her fisted hands moving along as if they're the floating plates.</p><p>"You know that's not normal, Holtzmann" Abby replies, not missing a beat.</p><p>"Sans, Be My Guest, of course. We can't afford SFX"</p><p>"This is Higgins Institute. They can hardly afford to keep the lights on" Abby snorts. Then the lights shut off, just as Holtz starts to disconnect the coolant tubes on the proton gun, in what must be pure, divine retribution.</p><p>"Are you serious?"</p><p>"Bad Abby" Holtz manages to get out past bellowing laughter.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It's dark when Holtzmann gets home. Her keys jingle in her hand, and she's freezing, teeth clattering, oversized overcoat pulled so tight shut she feels like she's being choked. The lock sticks, but sixth shove of her shoulder against the exterior door turns out to be the charm.</p><p>218's tenant stares at her funny with takeout in their hands, and Jillian smiles, winks, and waves. "And for tomorrow's performance I'll be opening a peanut butter jar with my hands tied behind my back, only using my mouth" She calls, one foot already in the door. "So stay tuned. Goodnight, everybody!"</p><p>She shuts and locks the door; grins like a loon. </p><p>The proton packs are on their way to working. Nothing can kill Holtzmann's vibe.</p><p>She throws her keys on the table next to the doorway. They skid, fall in the bowl on the floor. Score!</p><p>She blinks heavily in confusion. The walls are clean. The dishes have all been put away. She'd cracked a cup (several, actually), this morning, but the broken ceramic pieces were nowhere to be found.</p><p>Darn.</p><p>She runs out of the kitchen, over the striated blue carpet, past dangling plane models, then skids to a stop just outside her under the loft living room/phone room/work desk stuffed in the corner, and then proceeds to stare in wide eyed horror. Tiptoes forward, hand at her mouth. Lets lose a long suffering moan.</p><p>Her desk is clear. She can count all the scuff marks and the purposefully made pen marks, and she is livid.</p><p>"Ding-Darn-Dang it!" She yanks the drawer open.</p><p>Someone's rolled up all her blueprints, and carefully put them in the drawer. All out of order.</p><p>"Alphabetical Order?" She glances hotly at the labels, A, B, D… "Are you kidding me? Noooo. This isn't Sesame Street. No. No. No. I'm not living in a can of Alphabet soup. The Quantum Storage Container can not be next to The Quark Splicer. That's madness"</p><p>She slams the drawer shut. Opens it one more time, and then slams it shut again.</p><p>"Madness!"</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Alright. Holtzmann cracks her knuckles, spreads her hands wide, and then starts punching keys.</p><p>"Kay, H–W, yeah, How To Talk To Nosy A** Ghosts. There we go. And... search" She slams the key with her thumb, and rolls back in her chair, cackling. "Do your <em>thing </em>Google"</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Holtzmann drops her bag on the table, dumping its contents. Scraps of metal and circuit boards spread across the metallic surface like the parting of the red sea. Abby stares at her. </p><p>"So, ouija boards. Thoughts?"</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And so the Saga begins... </p><p>This idea has been tickling at the back of my mind since I rewatched Ghostbusters a month ago. This is also my first time writing Holtzmann, so lets call this first chapter setup, and a test ground to get a feel for her character.</p><p>Holtz meets Patty next chapter. And Erin should be making an appearance (sort of) next chapter, too.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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